Chocolates
by Kay Taylor
Summary: HarryHermione. Sequel to "Not Nearly Enough". Chocolates on Valentine's Day, and recriminations.


Hermione sits in bed and eats chocolates. It's Valentine's Day, and they're a box of Honeyduke's finest; wrapped in red-and-gold ribbons that whisper as she pulls the bow undone, soft crinkled tissue paper between each layer.  
  
And she's eating the ones she doesn't like first, as a kind of penance.  
  
Parvati's eyes had grown wide, and Lavender had giggled, and Hermione had felt like curling up into a little ball of guilt under the covers, had felt like throwing the stupid bloody chocolates out of the window, scattering them across the roofs and gutters. But she'd kept the chocolates, more out of habit than anything else, and kept them on her bedside table as she'd got ready for the school day, dragging a thick-bristled brush through her hair, tugging her skirt down past her knees, finding her quills and books and wand.  
  
The chocolates were like a reproach, because it was today she was meant to finish it, to finally tell Harry she didn't love him, that she couldn't _do_ this, couldn't go on being her best friend's girlfriend. The fact that it's Valentine's Day is like a cruel joke, because she'd only picked a time one month from now' at the start of term, when Harry's affections were still new enough to be... well. Still new enough that she didn't know what to do with them, and had written in her diary, in her meticulous handwriting: one month from today, I will have to break up with Harry, if I still don't love him.'  
  
And she doesn't love him - not now, not yet - and she's sitting in bed eating the beautiful chocolates, one by one.  
  
Strawberry Hearts. Hermione hates strawberries, because they're so sickly-sweet, and the taste of the filling settles on the roof of her mouth, ghastly and cloying. Harry can be too sweet, sometimes, and that makes it harder - like the time she'd gone to meet him in the Forbidden Forest, breaking every single school rule invented, and quite a few even Percy doesn't know, to tell him it was over. She still doesn't know why she chose the Forbidden Forest - maybe because it was quiet, maybe because she thought things would be different, without everyone always _watching_ - but she's always regretted it. Because as she stepped through the trees, a hundred candles burst into flame. Strung from the trees on ribbons, floating in mid-air like fireflies, swaying in the breeze.  
  
She can hear Parvati and Lavender chattering as they walk out of the room, but she's closed the drapes and they can't tell she's still in bed, because that's not like Hermione.  
  
Caramel Surprise. She can't think what would be so surprising about caramel, because it's so _normal_, so ordinary. Again, that's a bit like Harry. She bites into it carefully, the golden syrup oozing over her bottom lip, and thinks of kissing him. His eyes screwed tightly shut, his tongue exploring her mouth as if he wants to choke her. The way he tugs at her hair - she's sure he doesn't mean to, but he does, and he never even notices how much it bothers her - to manoeuvre her head into the right position, so he can force her to open her mouth wider. And afterwards, her lips are sore, because he presses down so hard. She's sure that there are other ways of kissing, and that maybe Harry will learn; but he hasn't learnt so far, and that's what it's like - unspectacular, uncomfortable. Ordinary.  
  
The caramel drips onto her fingers, and she sucks it off absent-mindedly. Valentine's Day. What a terrible day to dump your boyfriend, when he's sent you chocolates first thing in the morning, when he's probably waiting for you in the Common Room right now.  
  
Let him wait.  
  
Turkish Delight, which Hermione hates more than all the other chocolates. It's like jellied roses, and the chocolate covering is brittle, and for a while she licks the cocoa dust off the corners of the box instead. But she feels as if she _should_ eat it - after all, the strawberries and caramels are gone - because it'll be such a very long time before McGonagall comes looking for her.  
  
She can pretend to be ill. Because no-one will believe that she's sitting in bed, fully dressed, because she doesn't want to face one more day of Harry, and his chocolates are starting to make her feel sick.  
  
The Turkish Delight tastes like soap, the sort of soap that Hermione's mother keeps for guests. It's floral and sickly and smells like perfume worn by middle-aged ladies with good intentions. She doesn't want to chew it, but she has to, because the chocolates are so large. And the first bite has the most revolting texture - jelly - and she tries to think of something else, so she can swallow it.  
It's strange how someone you've been obsessed with - obsessed over, to the point of not wanting to sit next to them, in case they touch you - can become so incredibly ordinary. Just a boy, sweet and dull and uncomfortable in equal measures, but somehow adding up, over time, to someone you don't even want to see. Someone you actually _don't_ want to touch you.  
  
She'd like to say that Harry is like Turkish Delight, all wrapped up in a lovely box but somehow, just somehow, managing to sicken her. She'd like to say that Harry is like Strawberry Hearts, because he clings and is too sweet and impossible to get rid of. She'd like to compare him to Caramel Surprise, because he's so ordinary, and so messy.  
  
But there's no-one there to listen. And so Hermione sits in bed, on Valentine's Day, and eats Harry's chocolates, licking them off her fingers and crunching the tissue paper up into tight little balls, putting off the moment when she'll have to go downstairs and face him.


End file.
